Category Archives: baseball

It’s as gloomy and shitty as ever outside today, but thanks to the Joy of Sox my spirits are buoyed. That’s because today is the five year anniversary of one of the greatest games in baseball history — the July 24, 2004 brawlfest between the Red Sox and Yankees that featured not only loathsome douche Alex Rodriguez getting a glove sandwich shoved between his stupid purple lips, but also a six-run comeback by the Sox, capped by a game-winning 9th inning home run from Bill Mueller.

And I was there.

Not just me, but the straight-but-not-narrow then-future Mrs. Pax Arcana, her mother, sister, and mother’s husband. We were in the right field grandstand, at first just hoping the rain would hold off (it did) and that none of the calzone-stuffed mongoloid Yankee fans in our section decided to shave their backs mid-game. Instead we were treated to the wildest game I’ve ever seen.

In the third inning, Bronson Arroyo hit A-Rod with a curveball. Because he’s dumber than a sack of turnips, A-Rod assumed it was a purpose pitch. Jason Varitek intervened and the fisticuffs erupted. Normally I’m not one to condone fighting in baseball. But if there was ever douche who needed to be slapped in front of 40,000 people, it was the 2004 version of A-Rod.

Tek and A-Rod were both ejected, Tanyon Sturze (nice career, dick) bled from the ear, and the Red Sox capped a miracle comeback when Bill Mueller smoked a 3-1 cutter off Mariano Rivera into the visitors’ bullpen — a two-run homer to give the Sox the win.

At the time, the Red Sox were 8 1/2 games behind the Yankees. Soon after the brawl they would embark on a crazy win streak and end up winning the World Series after executing the greatest comeback in history in the ALCS. Several of the players on that team still point to the July 24, 2004 game as the spark that led to their eventual triumph. I don’t know about that. All I know is I was convinced that Fenway Park was going to crumble into pieces from everybody jumping up and down.

Update: Cool interview with Curt from the Car on his site at the new WEEI.com: http://bit.ly/I4oox

The Rules: The Friday Random 10 is exactly that — random. We open up our iTunes, set the thing on shuffle, and listen to 10 songs. We are not permitted to skip any out of embarrassment or fear of redundancy. Commenters are encouraged to post their own.

By now you’re probably familiar with my opinion of the Philadelphia Phillies. By which I mean the entire organization and its fanbase is a fetid pool of douche limned by a thick ring of fuckfacery.

But did you know that this is not a new development? It’s true! While today’s Phillies team features smirky fratboy douchebag fuckface asshole Cole Hamels, wife-punching caveman Brett Myers, and steroid-addled asscrack JC Romero, the diseased core of the franchise was built by historical knob-jobs like Pete Rose, Dick Allen, and several thousand others.

Consider the case of Senator Jim Bunning of Kentucky, a former Phillies pitcher and probably the worst Hall of Famer not named Phil Rizzuto. Not only is Bunning something of a paranoid who has accused “little green doctors” of attacking him at public events and once exhorted the people to vote for him because his opponent (an Italian-American doctor) looked too much like Saddam Hussein’s sons — he also just got nabbed red-handed breaking Senate rules by accepting money for autographs:

Bunning has paid himself a total of $155,000 in salary from the foundation since 2001, according to disclosure documents reviewed by The Hill. He works on foundation business for an estimated one hour a week.

The foundation was created in 1996, when Bunning was a member of the House of Representatives. In 2008, IRS documents show Bunning attended two autograph-signing events, for which the foundation was paid $12,595. Along with a licensing program run by the Hall of Fame, the foundation took in a total of $16,091.

But as Bunning was being paid as the foundation’s sole employee, the Jim Bunning Foundation has consistently donated less than the $20,000 the senator collects. The foundation has never given more than $19,575 in a year, according to IRS documents and documents Bunning has filed with the Senate.

It should be noted that there’s probably nothing illegal about what Bunning is doing. It’s douchey, but not illegal. Like tribal tattoos and baby corn. YOU’RE NOT FOOLING ANYONE BABY CORN. WHY DON’T YOU COME BACK WHEN YOU’RE ALL GROWN UP?

First, an apology. The competent and forward-thinking Mrs. Pax Arcana and I have been tied up of late with real estate shenanigans (previously discussed here). Basically we’re in those terrifying middle stages of purchasing our first home, wherein terms like P&S, quitclaim, covenant, and easement suddenly burst forth from the underworld and coat you in a sticky film of confusion.

That’s why there’s been a scarcity of mind-blowing awesomeness on this site, and why that scarcity will likely continue for a while. But rest assured — my irrational fear of science, komodo dragons, and the undead continue to haunt me and will soon propel this site back into action.

In the meantime, scientists at the University British Columbia have discovered that your brain is far more active during daydreams than previously believed:

The study, published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, finds that activity in numerous brain regions increases when our minds wander. It also finds that brain areas associated with complex problem-solving – previously thought to go dormant when we daydream – are in fact highly active during these episodes.

I like how they’re called episodes. It’s like your brain is a sitcom factory, just churning out storylines of mistaken identities, crazy neighbors, multiple generations of family under one roof, and sexual tension between coworkers. Like Sam and Rebecca on Cheers. I know that show went off the air like 16 years ago, but do you think Rebecca is as fat as Kirstie Alley now? If so, you’ve got to imagine that horn-dog Sam is catching it from his old Red Sox buddies. He’s doing guest spots on NESN talking about Jon Lester and the camera guy keeps cutting to still pictures of Rebecca stuffing her face with Fenway Franks on the concourse. Oh man I bet Sam punches that little shit Tom Caron right in the face.

Carl Crawford, who plays outfield for the Tampa Bay Heathen Sea Frisbees Rays, is on pace to steal 108 bases this year. While that number would fall short of Rickey Henderson’s single-season record (130), Crawford could make a different kind of history — stealing more than 100 bases without being caught.

Seriously — the dude is fast.

But does it matter? Are stolen bases more than just a flash of temporal excitement? Do they unnerve pitchers? Do they bring the defense out of position? Do they increase the likelihood of the batter getting a hit?

Not really, according to Bill James and other statistically-inclined thinkers. They say the stolen base has little correlation with wins, despite plays like Dave Roberts’ epic steal of second base against the Yankees in game 4 of the 2004 ALCS.

As a rule, according to baseball researcher Tom Tango, a team adds .02 wins to its season total when it steals a base, and loses .04 when someone is caught stealing. By this math, last year’s Rays, who led the majors with 142 steals in 192 tries, gained just a single win from their exploits. A team stealing 200 bases in 250 tries would add just two wins in an entire season.

But what about a player who steals 108 bases in 108 tries, as Mr. Crawford was on pace to do going into Friday’s game? Because he’s losing no value by getting caught, this player would add two wins all by himself.

So the Rays might get two extra wins this year just on Carl Crawford’s legs. The next step is for Joe Madden and his questionable math skills to devise some sort of formula to prove that 2=8 or 108=162 or some shit like that. Good luck, Joe!

As if you needed more evidence that Philadelphia sports fans are a half-step down the evolutionary ladder from animals that literally eat their own feces, here’s what happens when you show up for a Mets-Phillies game in the wrong colors:

According to The 700 Level (a great blog despite its unfortunate allegiances), the Mets fan pictured above had the good fortune to be hit with a flying glass bottle at one of the games this weekend.

Here’s what the guy who took the photograph reported:

When the commotion started he was standing up, but he fell to the ground soon after I started watching. He was on the ground for a while and it took about 10-15 minutes for an EMT to arrive. They bandaged his head and helped him walk away. Apparently the perpetrator was immediately led away by the police.

Our area (section 143, in left field) and the outfield in general were pretty nuts throughout the game. A fan in the scoreboard porch area threw a bottle of beer on the field after Ibanez’s home run, and I later saw police and security questioning him. Also, while the bloodied fan was waiting for the EMT to arrive, about 5-10 people in orange shirts were walked down from the scoreboard porch handcuffed by the police. I think they also were ejecting fans who threw Mets home runs back on the field. All in all a wild day. I wouldn’t have wanted to have a family there. And it’s only May. I can’t imagine what the fall could be like.

I’ll give you an idea of what fall is like for Philadelphia fans. First the leaves turn brown about 20 days early because the local populace has been using the Schuykill Expressway as a giant urinal again. In November, 92 Philly fans are killed when tainted Cheez Whiz hits store shelves. Just before Thanksgiving, Eagles fans decide to drop the charade of tolerance and just go ahead and boo all the black players and cheer the white ones.

Meanwhile, the fat guy + mustache combination remains the signature look of the region. So yay!

Every year around this time, there is a trigger event that finally snaps me into baseball mode.

Last year it was the sight of Johann Santana long-tossing in the outfield on the first day of Spring training. The year before that it was grainy video of Daisuke Matsuzaka’s supposed gyroball.

This year it is a worthy cause that has finally woken me from my long winter’s nap.

The Wright Stache is a blog dedicated to a single goal — to convince Mets third baseman David Wright to grow a mustache.

Do it. Do it. Seriously, do it.

And not for ironic or comedy purposes, mind you — there’s science involved. According to the below video, while the 2008 Mets outpaced the 1986 Mets in runs, hits, homers, RBI, batting average, and other important categories, the world champions boasted 11 mustaches to only 3 on last year’s team.

Clearly, there is mojo in the mustache.

So be it known from this day forth that Pax Arcana and his legions hereby endeavor to support the cause of convincing David Wright to grow a mustache.